Eagle’s Song

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Thank you, sir. I just try to do my job and mind my own business.” Zeke picked up the axe, feeling a little guilty that he had not actually come out and admitted he had both Negro and Indian blood. He felt no shame for it, but he had learned enough to know a man was better off keeping his mouth shut at certain times. He suspected this was one of them. If keeping quiet meant he could have some land of his own, then he’d keep quiet. There was a right time for all things, and one of the things he would find the right time for was squaring off with Carson Temple … somehow … someday—after he’d made something of himself. There were all kinds of ways to pay a man back; he didn’t necessarily have to hurt the man physically. There were other ways to do it.

  He wondered too what had ever happened to Georgeanne … or if he’d ever stop loving her.

  Fourteen

  Abbie stayed in Denver through Christmas, clinging to her family at a time when she knew she must. Swift Arrow was still with the Sioux, who had worked themselves into such a zealous frenzy over their new religion that an entire nation was on alert. No one seemed to care that the Indians continued to preach nonviolence with their new religion, that all the dancing and singing and drumming was simply to welcome their ancestors, who they truly believed would soon come back from the grave. It was even rumored that some of the Christianized Indians believed Christ himself would come to them soon.

  But ten days ago the worst had happened, and Abbie knew disaster lay ahead. Sitting Bull had been shot and killed by the reservation’s own Indian police. General Nelson Miles had wanted the man arrested, blaming the entire Ghost Dance situation on the infamous leader. Because of his job with the Rocky Mountain News, Joshua kept in touch by wire with everything that was happening at the reservation. The news about Sitting Bull had been devastating, and now hundreds of Indians were on the run, frightened and confused. They had fled the Standing Rock reservation, and the army was sure they were headed for Pine Ridge, where the once-great chief, Red Cloud, now lived. According to what Joshua had learned yesterday, they had joined up with a Ghost Dance leader called Big Foot, who was now the center of army attention, wanted by the War Department as a “fomenter of disturbances.”

  Abbie had to struggle now to keep her mind on her family and not go crazy worrying about Swift Arrow, who she knew would be right in the middle of whatever was happening. She had chosen to stay in Denver with Jeremy and Mary, Hawk and Iris for several months, wanting to spend Christmas with them. Hawk had been living in Boulder while he went to school, but he was home for the holidays, and this Christmas Day Iris’s new love also spent the day with them. Raphael was a stocky, good-looking young man, with the husky shoulders of a construction worker. He was soft-spoken and mannerly, and he and Hawk got along well. Hawk fully approved of his sister’s suitor, who was making a name for himself in Denver for his carpentry work and, apparently a frugal man, had some savings.

  Abbie could not help smiling at the reason he was building his worth. It was evident Raphael Hidalgo intended to ask Iris to marry him, and he wanted to be able to give her a good life. From the way Iris looked at the young man, there was no doubt in Abbie’s mind that the young woman’s answer would be yes.

  Margaret and Morgan had left the ranch in the hands of dependable hired hands and had come to join them for Christmas, as had Ellen and Hal. Since Zeke had left, and with proven title to Monroe land, they had thus far had no more problems with Carson Temple. Abbie suspected her children understood what she was going through with worrying over Swift Arrow, and they had dropped their own busy schedules to come and make this a family holiday, which it most certainly was, with Joshua and LeeAnn and their children also here at Jeremy’s house Christmas morning.

  Mary had her cook serve a breakfast fit for kings, and although Jeremy’s house was huge and ostentatious, Mary brought a warmth to every room, not just with her decorating but her personality. She had grown very close to Iris, who was blossoming into a beautiful young woman able to hold a candle to any of Denver’s loveliest debutantes. Now a gracious and graceful young lady well taught by a woman accustomed to the finer life, Iris had not lost her sweet personality. And on a dresser in her bedroom upstairs sat a picture … of a young Indian girl sitting on a fence at a ranch where she’d once lived on a reservation in Montana, and next to her stood a handsome Indian man … her father, Wolf’s Blood. There had been no word from him in over three years, but Iris Monroe had not forgotten her father.

  Nor had Hawk. The first thing the young man asked about when he came home for Christmas was his father, wanting to know if there was any word. The loneliness was still there in his eyes, but he was already excelling in school, determined to make good enough grades to go to Harvard after two years at the University of Colorado.

  With full stomachs, the whole family marched into the parlor, where a ten-foot tree took up half the room, presents scattered beneath it. Eight-year-old Lance was beside himself with excitement, and his laughter was joined with screeches and more laughter from Ellen’s seven-year-old son Daniel, and eleven-year-old Lillian. Dan and Rebecca were also here with Emily, now ten. The room grew even more crowded when LeeAnn and her brood left the table and joined the festivities with little four-year-old Abbie and six-year-old Lonnie. Abbie could see that Matthew, at twelve, was trying to act grown-up, but his eyes glittered with a desire to tear into the presents with the other children.

  “Grandma, look at this!” Lonnie exclaimed, holding up a toy metal train engine with wheels that really rolled and other moving parts that were made to scale.

  Paper flew everywhere, children squealed, and Mary and Jeremy laughed with delight, happy to be able to fill the house with children, happy to have a family at last. It was obvious Jeremy had splurged sinfully on every one of them, but Abbie knew he’d wanted to do it.

  She watched all the excitement, but her thoughts were in the Black Hills, with her Indian husband, who had apparently fallen under the spell of the Ghost Dance religion. He’d been gone six months, and every letter from him told of the joy he’d found in being part of such hope, how he felt truly at home, believing that soon the army and most whites would disappear from the face of the earth, that soon the land would be virgin again, lush with green grass on which millions of buffalo would graze.

  There had been no promises of returning to Montana, and Abbie had not expected them. A young Indian man who could read and write prepared the letters for Swift Arrow, as Swift Arrow himself had never learned either skill. He was truly one with the old, old ways; years of living with her had not taken any of the “Indian” out of him. He had easily been caught up in the fervor for the new religion that brought hope to a people who until now had been without any.

  Joshua had written several articles in the Rocky Mountain News, trying to explain that the Ghost Dance religion was not dangerous, but few whites believed that. Joshua feared that something disastrous was going to come of this. Abbie sorrowfully agreed, and she prayed daily for Swift Arrow.

  Tension was mounting quickly now, and Abbie wanted to know about every action that took place. The more Joshua learned, the more she wanted to go to Pine Ridge herself and try to find Swift Arrow. She wanted to be there if trouble broke out and he was hurt, but Joshua and Jeremy refused to let her go. Joshua was certain Swift Arrow did not want her there, and she knew deep down that was so. And Jeremy had said that if Zeke were alive, he would not want her to expose herself to the danger.

  She could do nothing now but sit and wait for every bit of news. As soon as the opening of gifts was done, Joshua had promised he would go to his office and see if there were any new developments before coming back for the royal Christmas feast Mary had planned for them all. She wished Jason and Louellen and the new baby could be with them, but they had not wanted to travel this far in the winter cold with such a small child. She thought how she should go back to Montana soon, but the weather might not allow it. January was not a time to be traveling through the wilds of Wyoming into Montana. J
ason would understand if she waited until spring.

  And even if she went back, how could she stay in that little cabin alone, without Swift Arrow? Perhaps she could never go back to stay. She felt restless now; a woman without a true home; for her home had once been in the arms of Zeke Monroe, then his brother Swift Arrow. If something happened to him, the closest thing to home would be the ranch. Perhaps she would return there with Margaret and Morgan to spend the winter.

  Winter. There were few places in the country where winter could be as cold and cruel as the Dakotas. Now Big Foot and his followers were a frightened, desperate people, fleeing to Pine Ridge in that terrible cold, probably thinking Red Cloud could somehow protect them from the growing numbers of soldiers. She had no doubt many of them still feared that the army was looking for revenge for Custer’s massacre fourteen years ago. Some of those with Big Foot might even have been there.

  Swift Arrow had. He must be so cold now. She wished she could hold him, warm him under a blanket.

  She looked around the room full of children and grandchildren—all dressed like any white man or woman. The tree was decorated with lovely, expensive, handmade trinkets, and a fire glowed in the marble fireplace. The children sat on a richly carpeted floor, the adults on expensive, velvet-covered furniture. Velvet drapes hung at tall windows, and plants sat about in expensive vases.

  No, Swift Arrow would not have been happy coming here with her. He was where he belonged.

  Wolf’s Blood carried in an armload of wood, dumping it beside the stone fireplace in the one-room cabin he now called home. “Hey, Sotaju,” he said to his pet wolf, “you are lazy today, huh?”

  The animal looked up at him with yellow eyes, remaining sprawled in front of the fire, his head between his paws. His only other movement was a slight wag of his tail.

  Wolf’s Blood pulled his bearskin coat closer around his neck as he fed a few more logs onto the blaze. “I do not blame you for staying right here,” he told Sotaju, whose name meant Smoke in the Sioux language. “It is so cold outside that it is a wonder my eyelids do not freeze to my eyeballs when I walk out the door.” Even inside he could see his breath, and he thought how nice it would be to have an iron heating stove that would radiate the heat inside rather than suck it up through a chimney. The only way to keep relatively warm was to sit directly in front of the fire, over which hung a black pot full of a venison stew he’d made himself with the last of the deer meat he had stored in a smokehouse outside. He needed to do more hunting, but it was too cold to stay out for long. He prayed his horses were all right. They were in stalls in a large shed, with several other horses owned by old Joe Bear Paw, a Cree Indian who lived with his granddaughter, Sweet Bird, whose Christian name was Elizabeth Bear Paw, in a small village not far away.

  He had found a bit of peace among the Cree, a tribe of Canadian Indians who had long ago stopped trying to save their land, like most Indians in the United States. They were left with this little bit of land, and were watched by the red-coated Canadian mounties. Unlike most tribes in the United States, these people did not get any help from the government that had forced them into this life. Though left to fend for themselves, there were few places where they were allowed to hunt. As a result, the tribe’s numbers were dwindling, old ones dying from broken hearts and malnutrition, younger ones also dying from malnutrition and from the diseases that often swept through the camps, brought to them by white traders. There were a few of those, bringing mostly whiskey rather than the goods that were truly needed. Even the traders seldom came anymore, for the Cree had nothing left to trade. What animal skins they did manage to procure through hunting were needed for their own clothing and blankets.

  Wolf’s Blood stirred the stew, which besides the deer meat consisted of the last of his potatoes and onions. He’d spent most of the money he had on food, not just for himself but for the rest of the Cree, and he’d gone to the closest trading post two months ago to buy a wagonload of oats for the horses. Now those were running low, although the tribe had managed to farm some hay and alfalfa. If winter did not last too long into spring, the horses would survive … unless they all froze to death.

  He decided it might be safe now to write to Hawk and Iris, and to his mother. He had faithfully carried pen and ink and paper in his supplies these three years, always meaning to write but afraid if he wrote too soon, authorities would discover the letter and his whereabouts. He had decided it was best to remain completely silent for all this time. Maybe by now the authorities didn’t care anymore, or were too preoccupied with the new trouble in the Dakotas. He’d heard about the Ghost Dance religion through gossip at the trading post. He longed to go there himself and take part in the dancing and drumming, but it was more important to stay alive for his children, to live as long as he could bear the pain of his arthritis, long enough to know Hawk had graduated from law school, to know Iris was perhaps happily married.

  No one up here knew he was a wanted man, and it was not uncommon to see Sioux and Cheyenne Indians up here, where Sitting Bull himself had once fled. The thought pierced his heart, for he had only recently heard that Sitting Bull had been killed. What sickened him most was that it was the tribe’s own Indian police that had shot him down. This was something Sitting Bull had once predicted would happen—that he would be killed by his own people.

  He gritted his teeth in anger. The U.S. government had done a good job destroying the Indians by keeping them divided, bribing the weak ones to their side, pitting tribes against each other. What had happened to Sitting Bull would probably cause internal strife among the Sioux for generations.

  He leaned closer and tasted the stew, pleased with himself for the good cook he’d become out of necessity. There was a time when, as a warrior, he would not think of doing such womanly things, but he had no choice now. He turned away to rummage through his supplies, and found the pen and the bottle of ink, as well as an envelope and a few sheets of paper that were now wrinkled and turning yellow. His family would not care what condition the paper was in, or that he misspelled words and his penmanship was not the best. That was his fault. He’d begun refusing his mother’s lessons at an early age, preferring to be outside riding a horse and learning the Cheyenne way.

  He sat down in a homemade wooden chair and set pen and paper on the storage crate he used for a table. He would send the letter to Jeremy in Denver, the one person in his family he knew would still be in the same place. He’d kept his brother’s address with him all this time, knowing he would want to get a letter to his children and let them know he was all right. Jeremy could get word to everyone else. Abbie could be anywhere—at the reservation, in Denver, at the ranch. The thought of her and the children brought on a painful loneliness he knew would never go away. Hawk was almost eighteen now, Iris sixteen. If he’d figured the time right, it must be Christmas, or a little after. He hoped they had all had a nice holiday.

  He was starting to uncap the ink when there came a tap at the door. He frowned, rising and walking to open it. Someone bundled in a wolfskin coat and leggings darted inside and went to stand by the fire, and Wolf’s Blood knew it had to be someone familiar, since Sotaju remained still and did not growl. He closed the door. “You might have asked if it was all right to come in,” he said in irritation. “Would you mind introducing yourself?”

  The figure turned, pulling a heavy fur hood away from her face and hair. It was Sweet Bird. She smiled, her black hair flattened to her head by the heavy hood. “I was worried about you, wondered if you were warm and had food.”

  He wanted to be angry with her for coming unannounced and uninvited, yet her presence was pleasing. “I have been taking care of myself since I was a young boy. You need not worry about Wolf’s Blood, Sweet Bird, and you should not have been out walking in this terrible weather. This is becoming a blizzard, and it is nearly a mile to your village. You could have gotten lost.”

  “Would you have cared?”

  He watched her warily. “Of course I wou
ld. You are the granddaughter of my good friend, Joe Bear Paw.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  He sighed, folding his arms in front of him. “Of course it is. What other reason would I have?” He could see that she was blushing slightly, in spite of her dark skin … beautiful skin … smooth and without blemish.

  “Perhaps for the same reason I care about you as more than just my grandfather’s friend. I have decided you should no longer be up here alone, Wolf’s Blood. A man should have a woman to cook for him, clean and prepare the animals he brings back from the hunt … keep him warm in the night.”

  He waved her off, going back to sit down to his letter. “I am about forty-three summers. You could be my daughter. Do not be giving yourself to a man my age, Sweet Bird. Go and make eyes at the young men.”

  She sobered, stepping closer. “There are no young men left.”

  The words cut deep, filling him with sadness. How right she was. There were few young men for a maiden to choose from. He rose, looking down at her, studying her big, brown eyes and seeing desire there, youthful, eager love. “I have already loved three women, Sweet Bird. The first was when I was very young, and so was she. She was Cheyenne, and she was killed by soldiers at Sand Creek twenty-six years ago, before we ever had the chance to marry. The second was an Apache woman, whom I made my wife. She, too, was killed by soldiers. My third wife was a white woman, and she was killed by a drunken white man. Now I am a wanted man in the States, and for all I know someone might come here looking for me. I will not love another woman and watch her die. Soldiers and drunken white men have destroyed my life. I have little love left to give even if I would consider taking you for a wife.”

  “I do not care. Life is hard here. There is little hope for us, just as you have little hope. Why not enjoy what we can have for the moment? I want to be your woman. I want children. You cannot turn me back out there in the cold because the wind is growing worse and I could not make it back. I must stay here now until the storm is over, and I do not think you will be able to keep me here without taking me to your bed. Once you do, we will be man and wife, and that will be that. Grandfather would be happy about it.”